


Moriarty Says

by FudoTwin17



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Moriarty is Alive, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FudoTwin17/pseuds/FudoTwin17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty plays a game with Sherlock and John. Sherlock runs, and John obeys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moriarty Says

**Author's Note:**

> Well, then. I know I have actual work to do and series to finish, but this wouldn't leave me alone. I was originally going to have a different ending, but the work rejected that idea. If you'd like to read this fic with the opposite ending, tell me. I'll see about what I can do.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!
> 
> Me no own.

Of all things to do, all places to go, the last place John Watson wanted to go was back to Baker Street. It wasn't that he didn't love the place, miss it (because he did, oh, he did), but he always found his throat sticking and a little tremor run down his spine when he stepped foot into their flat-well, Mrs. Hudson's flat, now. John couldn't force himself to stay and Sherlock . . . .

Well.

The place was dusty, and John supposed he should have expected that, but he really didn't. From scattered papers to science equipment to the last experiment that Sherlock had been working in the microwave (and John wished he had noticed _that_ long before), the flat looked exactly as it had when John left.

From when Sherlock left.

Temptation clawed at him to leave the flat, but he shook it off. Mrs. Hudson couldn't clean this (or at least, she shouldn't-Sherlock was like a son to her), and it had been put off for nearly two and a half years. It was time to pack it away.

John swallowed at the thought, hands shaking just enough.

He started simply. Not daring to touch the science experiment, John went through the fridge and cupboards and threw everything too old in the bin. Once that was done, he moved on to organizing it. He found his hands moving through the automatic process of wiping down the sink, the table, the refrigerator, and all the other flat surfaces. After, he cleaned the floor, deciding to move on (not daring to touch the microwave-he was putting it off).

Skipping the main room as he was struggling just a bit too much being in there quite yet, he moved on to the bathroom. He'd cleaned the sink and the loo very well (to the point where there were no watermarks) if he did say so himself when he pushed aside the shower curtain, and things went a little sideways.

It was a note, simple and precise. It held three words that made John frown.

_John, call me._

Taking the note off the wall with a light tear as the tape refused to give way, John looked on both sides with furrowed eyebrows. There was no number to call. It was a bit ridiculous, and John felt a bit of anger grow inside of him.

What bloody kind of person would think it was funny to put a note like _that_ inside Sherlock's old flat? Everyone knew what kind of a man Sherlock was. This wouldn't be something he necessarily _wouldn't_ do. Sherlock would probably call it an experiment to see how many people would check the back or something.

But it was addressed to him. John.

He closed it with an annoyed snap of his jaw, crumpling the paper in his hands and tossing it into the trash.

Then his mobile rang.

In surprise, John found his hands searching for it on automatic before he remembered exactly where it was. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, John dismissed the anger from his voice as best as he could and answered. "Hello?"

"Sorry. I was going to wait for you to call, but I was getting a little antsy." A voice on the other end said. It sounded familiar, but John found he couldn't place it.

"Who is this?" John asked, shifting his stance as he put more weight onto his left leg.

"Oh, I'll give you a hint. My name is like Voldemort's." The voice said, sounding oddly gleeful. John blinked, frowning at nothing in particular. Frankly, he wasn't sure what the voice was getting at. Thankfully, he didn't have to answer. "Actually, I think that was a bad hint. Okay, Johnny-boy, this one will be better. I promise!" The shout into the phone scratched on John's poor device, but he barely winced. A knotting sensation was filling his gut as suspicion began taking root in his mind. "Alright, I'm technically dead, but I'm not, actually. A few bribes and well-placed people, and I hardly had to wave my hand to get it done! Aren't ordinary people just adorable? I didn't even have to snap my fingers, and they were running like a dog after a bone."

Ordinary people

John's chest heaved, and the blood drained out of his face.

"Moriarty."

 

 

 

 

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. His lead on Sebastian Moran, supposedly Moriarty's right hand man, had led him back to the streets of London, but nothing had managed to pan out. He knew the man had purchased a burner phone a little ways from the London Eye and was seen talking to a hooded man in a mask in the Torchwood building (whatever that had to do with-frankly, Sherlock didn't think that mattered enough to investigate-yet), but the moment he went to central London, it seemed as though he'd disappeared.

Sherlock had lost his trail.

The very thought infuriated him. Sherlock Holmes did not lose people. It didn't happen.

It shouldn't have happened.

His mobile ringing made him even more infuriated, and he snatched it up. He spoke with a venom that was becoming only too familiar. "I don't care who you are. You should not have this number."

"Ow, Sherlock! That really hurts my feelings." A man said over the line, and Sherlock's head snapped up at the sound. He knew that voice. "But not as much as it'll hurt John Watson."

Sherlock felt the anger rush out of him. With his friend's (his best friend, his first _real_ friend) name, the man on the other line had taken his ire and replaced it with caution. He spoke clearly. "What do you know of John Watson?"

"I know he's about to do something very stupid for you." Replied the man, chuckling. "Ordinary people are so silly. I should really get another one soon. After all, I'm about to be one short because of you. Oh, well. A pet for a pet, right?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, eyes darting back and forth restlessly. "You should be dead."

"Wow. Not like haven't heard that before." Spoke Moriarty with a light sigh at the end. "Really, Sherlock."

"What are you going to do to John?" Sherlock demanded immediately. He could feel his heart racing beneath his skin like it hadn't in years.

"I already told you, Sherlock. No-thing. I'm going to tell him what to do, and he's going to do it." Sherlock's breathing picked up. He was sure Moriarty could hear it over the line, but he didn't care enough to check himself.

"Why?" Questioned Sherlock.

"Because he'll think I have you. It's amazing how loyal pets are. Too bad." Moriarty sighed.

"He won't believe you. Not without proof." Sherlock said, but a little voice in the back of his head whispered that he'd left John unattended, undefended. What proof would he really need? Sherlock wasn't living with him anymore, not even supposedly alive.

"Like this?" Moriarty sounded like he was laughing, but then Sherlock heard it. It was a deep, guttural growl that he recognized almost immediately as himself. 

And he knew John would, too.

"When?" Sherlock's tone was hard, harder than it had been in years, but he didn't care. He barely bristled when Moriarty laughed at him over the line.

"Right now." That's when everything clicked into place. This was a game like everything else, of course, but this was also more than that. This was revenge for being so close to taking a player off the board. This was glee, and this was gloating. "Better hurry, Sherlock. The clock's ticking! Ticktock. Tick. Tock."

Sherlock didn't bother shutting the mobile. He simply threw it to the side.

And he ran.

 

 

 

 

"It's been so _long_ since we talked, Johnny-boy! I mean, really talked. We haven't had an honest conversation since . . . Wow, since the pool! It's been too long!" Moriarty's speech seemed to grate against John's ear, and he grimaced at the wall. The man should have been dead.

John wished he was dead.

"How are you alive?" John snarled, and he heard shuffling on the other side of the line.

"No catching up, then?" Moriarty asked. At John's stony (and a little numb, a little shocked) silence, the mad man gave a loud sigh. "Alright, alright. A fake bullet, a few good people, and voila! I live!" He exclaimed before pausing. "And I'm not the only one."

John choked. Because Sherlock . . . Sherlock . . . .

"Say hello, Sherlock!" There was a shuffling noise, but John didn't hear anything else. Not even breathing. "No? Okay. I'll settle with a scream."

A gunshot went off.

John jerked out of his shocked numbness as a low, angry groan of pain rang through the line. It sounded like Sherlock, and John nearly panicked, but the adrenaline seemed to make him calm, and he stared ahead, all tremors gone.

"Huh." Moriarty made a clicking noise with his tongue. "That wasn't a scream. I guess we'll just have to try this again."

John heard him cock the gun.

"Why are you doing this?" John asked before he could stop himself. After the words left his mouth, he sent a quick prayer up that it was the right thing to say. If anyone was more touchy than Moriarty, John didn't know. His words could be a cure-all or a death sentence.

" _BECAUSE YOU RUINED HIM!_ " Moriarty roared, voice sounding harsher with the static. All of a sudden, his voice quieted. Back to speaking normally, Moriarty spoke with what sounded like a smile on his face (though John was sure it was the grin of a hyena). "See, he's not fun anymore. All he cares about are his little pets. It's pathetic." The snarl was harsh, but John didn't even flinch. He found himself straining to hear Sherlock in the background, but he hardly heard anything. "So, I thought the game would be much funner if I could just take away Sherlock's toys. Too bad. You would have been fun to play with, Johnny-boy."

He sounded so sorrowful as he said it that John almost rose an eyebrow. The man sounded like he was throwing away his toys.

John wanted to shout at him, at Sherlock, at the world that he wasn't a toy to be played with, a pawn to be manipulated, or some fragile thing to protect. He wanted to scream and rant and rave. He wanted to take his gun and march into Moriarty's hideout and take Sherlock home so he could scream and rant and then apologize. He wanted a lot.

Instead, he said "Funner isn't a word."

There was a pause, and then Moriarty was laughing, crowing so hard there was a hitch in his words after. "Oh, Johnny-boy. I will miss you."

John scowled. The man was a psychopath in ways that Sherlock could never be. "What now?"

"Well," Moriarty began, "We'll play Simon says. I'll be Simon. Actually, scratch that. I don't want to be called Simon. Let's play Moriarty says."

"And if I disobey?" John asked, taking the free moment to think. He moved to the mirror and stared at it. Looking through the cabinet quickly, he found what he was looking for. Melissa had left her lipstick when they'd been dating.

"Sherlock loses a finger each time. Maybe two. And if I run out of fingers, I'll rip out his tongue." John didn't react, quickly scrawling _Moriarty lives_ before dropping the tube in the sink, now newly dirty. With a deep breath, John stepped back.

"Alright." John said simply. He closed his eyes for one moment, just picturing Sherlock's face. If Sherlock got to live, then it would be worth it.

"Wonderful!" The mad man exclaimed. "Now, Moriarty says go to your room."

John's steps were heavy as he made his way there. He didn't dwell long anywhere, not pausing on the stairs or anywhere else. It was almost resigned, but he seemed to have something in his step that spoke of some higher purpose. It wasn't a step that looked as though he were marching to his death. Moriarty spoke almost the moment that he crossed the threshold of his old room.

It looked exactly the same except for a rope laying innocently on the pillow.

"Moriarty says close the door."

John shut it, not bothering to soften the sound.

"Moriarty says lock it."

The lock clicked into place with a final ring. John didn't waste his time analyzing it poetically. In another life, maybe, where he was a detective's blogger, but that was over. He supposed this one was about to be as well.

"Moriarty says tie the rope into a noose."

John swallowed but reached for the rope. He quickly pressed the speaker button, making sure he didn't miss his executioner's words.

John wished his knots weren't so good, so swift. He would have liked to look at a poor knot, maybe just so he had a little more time to think or to remind him that Moriarty's plans weren't perfect, that he'd be caught, but it was done only too quickly. He took a deep breath, keeping himself relaxed.

"Moriarty says move a chair to the middle of the room."

John frowned. Moving the chair as commanded, he wondered why on earth it was happening in his room. There was nothing in his room to even hang himself _on_. However, after moving the rope, he saw it. Installed in the ceiling was a handle, not unlike that to a machine or a step on a ladder, just bent. He wondered how long it had been there, when Moriarty had hired someone to put it in.

He wondered how long Moriarty had planned to kill him like this.

"Moriarty says hook the rope through the latch."

The metal was cold against his skin, and he was slightly surprised at the height of the room. He hadn't noticed it being so tall before.

Then, he realized that it wasn't that tall. For Sherlock, it would have been too difficult to hang himself here.

There, about to hang himself, he felt a jolt of annoyance and indignity. Really, he was about to die. The least the man could do was let him have a little dignity. Couldn't his height be overlooked at his death? Really?

Almost immediately, he felt ridiculous. Here he was about to die on command, and he was upset about his height. He felt like he could cry. He felt like he could laugh. Maybe both. In the end, he settled for neither. Moriarty wouldn't hear a word of cowardice, regret from him.

Neither would Sherlock.

"Done." John stated simply, his voice like that of a soldier.

"Moriarty says put the noose around your neck."

John struggled to put it on and swallowed once it was snugly placed. He doubted he could take it off if he tried now. He felt a bit constricted, a bit afraid now, but he held his breath and counted silently in his head. Almost immediately, his nervousness and his fear became small and unimportant.

It would be okay.

Sherlock would live.

"And now, a few words." Moriarty began. John wondered why the man chose to draw it out and was a little tempted to jump now just to not hear what the man was going to say. He didn't want to know what Moriarty's version of his obituary would be. It was humiliating. John didn't want his murderer to say a word.

But he was the one with the clippers, and Sherlock already had a bullet in him.

The door handle jiggled, attempting to open against the lock and startling him so much he nearly jumped by accident. He watched it work harder and swallowed, praying for their silence.

If Moriarty knew who it was, John knew they were going to die.

 

 

 

 

Coming back to 221B Baker Street was a bit surreal for Sherlock since he'd been dead so long, but he found he couldn't focus on that. He couldn't focus on all his things or the way that everything looked exactly the same (or the fact that the door had the same locks). The only thing he could think was _John, John, John, John, John John John-_

He was running, too out of breath to cry out. He checked every room for the man and only minutely paused at the bathroom where his abject terror was doubled because  _Moriarty lives_ seemed to double as  _John dies_ to Sherlock. He rushed down the hall, up the stairs, and to John's room. It was the one he hadn't checked yet and-

It was locked.

Breathing heavy, he tried again frantically but failed.

Only then did it occur to him that he'd copied the key for the door very early on in their partnership. His hands were desperate as they went to his jacket pocket where he had stored the key (for comfort, really, because it was otherwise useless and had no reason to be in any of his new jackets of any persona he had newly taken up except that it connected him back to home).

The door clicked.

The door opened, and his breath left him. There John Watson stood. His back was strong and his expression fierce, somehow fitting in with the slight bit of cleaner still clinging to his left hand, the soft-looking sweater, and the rings around his eyes. They stood out, haunted and proud, but they were accented by the noose around his neck. His confident stance was almost on his toes on the only chair in the room.

John didn't look shocked at all by Sherlock-well, maybe by his entrance but definitely not by the fact that he was alive. His face was calm as he stared at John, but then John rose a single finger to his lips.

It was a universal signal to be quiet, but Sherlock didn't understand until another voice rang through the room.

The mobile was on speaker.

"John Watson." Moriarty said, sounding fond. "I'd like to say he was a friend of mine, but I'm afraid he was more like a friend's pet dog. Interesting enough, but only fun to play with a few times. However, I do wish that I could play with him more. He was rather funny."

Immediately, raw anger rushed through Sherlock, but he understood. If Moriarty wasn't aware of him, it would be best he remain that way in case of a more dangerous plan B. And with John unable to move, barely perched on the edge of the chair with the noose too tight to adjust and jump down from (Sherlock wanted to curse-Nooses were supposed to be made with a loose knot so they could be adjusted, not so absolute), he needed to get John down before he could get him out (and away because that noose, this place was like a bomb, and Sherlock refused to leave John where the explosion would hit).

"I enjoyed watching him be torn apart by Sherlock. Built up, destroyed, then struggling alone. It shouldn't be funny, but it somehow was without me even playing." Moriarty said as Sherlock's anger with him grew.

Sherlock snatched a pair of scissors from the desk. He walked over and scowled at John's position, wishing to move him. Instead, he climbed on the bed and stood. It was a bit of a stretch, but Sherlock managed to just reach the rope. It was a bit dangerous (and Sherlock found a little part of his brain terrified that he'd reach just barely and lose his balance and accidentally knock John down and, and, and-), but Sherlock kept himself calm as he opened the scissors and sawed away.

"Of course, I did get to play with him a couple times. I think the pool was the most fun, even without Sherlock there, but it was fun to see him get so angry at everything when Sherlock came out as a fraud." Moriarty clucked his tongue. "Too bad he didn't stop believing. It would have been so much more fun, especially breaking the news of what Sherlock did for him and the rest of the kiddies. Imagine if he had lost faith."

Sherlock was almost halfway through the rope.

"But I think the most important thing in the end is his death."

Sherlock's absolute rage made his hand stop but only for a moment.

"After all, Sherlock left him by jumping, and now John is leaving Sherlock by jumping. Ironic, huh?"

"How on earth is that ironic?" John asked, forced bewilderment in his voice. Sherlock imagined he'd be amused in any other situation, but he couldn't find it in himself to laugh while John's life was hanging by a thread and balanced on a chair.

"Shh, John! Rude." Moriarty scolded him. "You should know the dead don't speak." Moriarty huffed something before he began again.

Sherlock was almost done.

"Now, John Watson, Sherlock's white knight and best supporter, is going to fall by Moriarty's command."

The rope cut. Immediately, Sherlock was at John's side, helping him down.

"Moriarty says jump." There was barely veiled triumph in the mad man's voice. "I win."

Sherlock picked up the phone. "No. I win."

And he shut off the phone.

Sherlock was quick to remove the noose from John's neck, careful not to scrape his skin too much and even quicker to search him for other injury. But it was then, under John's warming gaze and with a cut rope hanging from the ceiling that Sherlock finally felt like he was home.


End file.
